


Save the Last Dance For Me

by deux_lunes



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deux_lunes/pseuds/deux_lunes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1974, John and Harry were working late in the studio. Though working, Harry thought, watching John take another swig of Jack straight from the bottle, probably wasn’t the right word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save the Last Dance For Me

The swishing of John’s pants against the studio’s carpet made Harry look up from the sound board, and offer a single annoyed grunt. John looked back at him and grinned, swinging his legs a little more. The ends of his pants were too long for him, hanging over his bare heels; he had long abandoned the platform shoes for the comfort of working barefoot. Though working, Harry thought, watching John take another swig of Jack straight from the bottle, probably wasn’t the right word.

“Give me that.” John handed him the bottle, and Harry took his own drink. The fire that poured down his throat did little to suppress the one in the pit of his stomach. He took two more, just to be on the safe side.

John wiggled his toes and stared through his thick glasses. “I’m sick of sitting here. Let’s do something else.”

Harry turned back to the sound board, indicating that he wanted to get back to work, even if John couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes. But before he could even reach for his headphones, a bolt of unwanted and unasked for arousal shot through his body, brought on by nothing more than John Lennon’s toes on his thigh.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s fuck.”

Harry shoved John’s foot off; a deep blush took root underneath his beard, and he hoped John couldn’t see. The shame of John’s bald-faced statement was enough to make him half-hard. He wouldn’t answer, only tweak various levels, turn any knob in arm’s reach. The two men had been intimate on several occasions in the past month or so, drunkenly and violently kissing and pulling off their clothes to rut against each other until they came or passed out. But they were always too drunk to see straight, neither of them ever said the words out loud. Harry couldn’t have even whispered his desires to himself, let alone make a flat-out proposition.

“Come on,” John repeated, stroking up and down Harry’s leg. “You don’t really want to do this bullshit, do ya? Wouldn’t you rather do me instead?”

“Cut it the fuck out, John,” Harry snapped. “You don’t know who could walk through that door.”

John snorted and held out his hand for the bottle of liquor, which Harry dutifully gave him. “No one’s coming. They’re out with their wives.”

The room was quiet except for the greedy gulps of liquor cascading down John’s throat. He hadn’t seen Yoko in months; Diane had moved out on Harry a couple of weeks before, taking Zak and a suitcase full of clothes, leaving not a single word. Of course there was May, and girls they both saw on the side, but it wasn’t the same. The passion, the commitment, it was different with a wife or long-time partner. It was deep and full of hidden life, like the dark waters of the sea.

“I bet Paul’s fucking Linda right now,” John spat; Harry was hardly surprised by the venom in his voice. The two former Beatles played for the first time in years the other day, and it was more than obvious that John couldn’t stand seeing Paul have his life so put-together. Paul, for his part, could barely look at John; he stared and smiled at his wife the whole time, while John glared and got belligerently high on coke.

Harry remained silent as John’s foot wormed its way between his legs. A big toe wiggled at his crotch. “You don’t want them to have all the fun, do you, Harry?” John asked, low and breathy. “Your dick’s bigger than Paul’s, it needs more stimulation.”

“John, for God’s sake, I don’t want to fuck in the studio.” Harry’s voice echoed in the empty room, and his heart pounded as he heard himself say the words, but maybe it was from the ball of John’s foot rubbing against his testicles.

“Your dick’s probably no good,” John sneered, “if you don’t wanna fuck what’s offered. Don’t be such a fucking twat.”

“I’m not the one being a twat, asshole,” Harry muttered. “You know for a fact my dick works fine.”

“Prove it.” John leaned forward, putting pressure on Harry’s groin, a smug grin on his face. “Fuck me, Harry. Prove that you can fuck me like a man.”

With a growl, Harry towered over John, grabbed a clump of his long hair and kissed him brutally; John trembled beneath him and it made him harder. The alcohol he had imbibed was suddenly present in his system as he stood. It rushed to his head and through his bloodstream as John’s lips parted for him eagerly.

Harry yanked John out of the chair and slammed him against the wall, grinding their pricks together and kissing him again before John was able to make any more smart-ass comments. John was only able to moan and pant. He dug his fingers into Harry’s hair, while his smooth face was scratched by his beard. “Oh God, oh God,” he babbled. “Take me, please, Harry.”

He pulled back to look at the man in front of him. John seemed to have come absolutely undone in the process of their kisses—his eyes were wet, a light blush spread over his cheeks and aquiline nose, he panted and trembled like he was about to come in his pants if Harry so much as put a finger on him.

“I don’t know…” Harry kissed the crook of John’s neck, trying to take the heat down, even just a little. “We’ve never done that before.” 

“ _I’ve_ done that before, it doesn’t matter if you haven’t.” John grasped Harry’s cock, and rubbed him through his pants, desperately and too hard. 

Harry grabbed John by the wrists; the small bones popped under the pressure. “If you don’t behave yourself,” he said, head pounding, “I’m going to have to tie you up.”

To his shock, John moaned; it was higher in his throat than Harry had ever heard a man moan, and it distorted his thoughts like stereo static. He wrenched John closer to him as he fumbled for his headphones, tying John’s wrists together with the long cord.

John looked up at him through his glasses, already helpless and at Harry’s mercy. “Please,” he whimpered, and rubbed his prick against Harry’s thigh, the stiffness making him dizzy. “I know you want to.” Harry realized that John was getting off on the helplessness of his situation—he was in another man’s control, he was exposed and vulnerable… And it turned him on.

Harry pushed all doubts and fears to the back of his mind; he popped the top button of John’s tight blue jeans and unzipped them, shimmying them down his hips. His already erect cock sprang into view, as visibly desperate to be touched as John was himself. Harry ran his fingers down John’s manhood, and grinned when John moaned again. “You’re not going to come before I fuck you, are you, John?” He shook his head, trying to convince Harry that he’d be good; he wouldn’t come until the proper time. “We need lube though.”

“In my bag,” John said. Harry squatted to dig through John’s tote bag of papers and cigarettes and junk until he came across a bottle of lubrication. “Were you planning this?”

John shook his head, but the blush on his cheeks said otherwise. Harry grabbed him by the headphones and shoved him onto the sound board. He kept back a smile as John’s cock bounced with the action and the man himself groaned as knobs dug into his back. His bound hands were raised high above his head; his hair fanned out femininely. He looked up at Harry as he removed his pants, his cock frantic for freedom.

“You look completely helpless, you know that?”

John shivered at the words as Harry ran a hand down his ass. “Take off my glasses. They fall off if I’m getting fucked too hard.” Harry laughed at John’s cheeky grin and removed his glasses. With one hand, he stroked the lube onto his cock, while the other thumbed the John’s asshole. The man beneath him writhed and squirmed and made no effort to keep quiet. When Harry felt sufficiently prepared, he took his greasy hand and pushed one finger slowly inside John. 

“Oooh… ahhh… Oh God …” John blinked up at him, and Harry couldn’t tell if John could actually see him, or just some blur of a man about to fuck him. He had done it before. Visions of John spreading his legs for other men sunspotted behind Harry’s eyes, and throat-clenching anger seized him as he seized John, hiking his legs up and thrusting into him.

“Harry!” John gasped, and that almost satisfied his desire to know who John was thinking of. His hands pulled against the taut wire encasing his wrists, not in an effort to free himself, but to feel them, to remind himself how he was at another man’s mercy, the power he had lost. He wrapped his legs around Harry’s waist, pulling him in closer. “Keep going,” he whispered. “Please, I need it.”

Harry complied without a word and without once taking his eyes from John’s face. The blush was still fresh on his cheeks; he hoped that for all of John’s bravado, he was still shamed like Harry was to be so undisciplined with his lust. If Harry didn’t stop himself, he could hear his uncle in his head telling him that everyone wanted to do things they couldn’t. He just had to push it down deep, so deep that all of those sinful temptations drowned. But every desire he ever pushed down had been bubbling up in the recent years; Harry drank himself sick, smoked a pack of cigarettes and a bag of grass a day, never said no to any drug, whored around enough to even lose his wife. And with John, the desires flooded him and he lost all control. He couldn’t breathe; his lungs ached with lust for the man beneath him.

John’s mouth hung open, harsh puffs of air escaping every time Harry rammed into his tight ass. Neither of them said a word, only listened to John’s pants and Harry’s growls and the intoxicating noises made from their wet and sticky flesh. John cried out as Harry repositioned himself and struck his prostate. “Oh please, Harry,” he begged, “touch me. I’m so close, I nearly came just from that.”

Harry didn’t touch him, only thrust again to hit John’s sweet spot. His fingers curled and so did his toes; his thighs squeezed Harry’s waist as hard as they could. With every thrust and every sound out of John’s mouth, he could feel his wife slipping from his mind. There was no more Diane, no more Yoko, no more… Paul. And it clicked. That was it. That was why. 

John had told the Beatles he was divorcing them—he had recounted the story himself for Harry— but he never actually dreamed that he and Paul… He could see it all now though, the inexperienced flirting of the early sixties, to the furious mid-decade fucking, all the way to the bitter and broken winter of ’69, running away with their wives and waiting for one of them to say the words they were waiting for. It was over. But Harry knew John; he listened to him talk about Paul every day. It was never over.

“Harry…” he whispered. “Don’t stop?” Harry hadn’t even realized that he had. John looked up at him, obviously scared he had done something wrong. Harry once looked up to John until he got to know him—he learned that John was as much an insecure child that he was, frightened of losing love but even more frightened of having it. He could see John and Paul together now, and wondered why he never noticed it before. All at once, he could see the desperate love and the suffocating heartbreak both of them had endured. But Paul had Linda; John was alone. 

Harry leaned down and kissed John on the lips, a faint flavor of blood greeting him. He was suddenly ashamed of hurting him, despite John’s roughness, despite John’s lack of control, despite John’s cruel words and queer depravity. He was alone, and he was scared. He drank to give himself confidence; he did drugs so life would seem bearable. He kissed him again, and tried to make John hear him: You’re not alone. You are loved beyond measure.

He thrust again and again; he took John’s cock in the palm of his hand and worked the wet shaft until he could feel it, really feel it build inside John. “Come on, Johnny,” he said, speeding up his pace until John shook, “it’s okay.”

John’s orgasmic moans echoed in the small room; Harry heard the catch in his throat before he felt the hot cum spilling over his hand. “Oh fuck…” John said, his breathing still uneasy. “It didn’t get on the console, did it?”

“Fuck it.” Harry pulled him forward and kissed him, grabbing the base of his neck to deepen it. He kept thrusting, spurred on by John’s lips, the still-bound hands between them and the cum on his hand that was currently in John’s hair. And of course, the ever-burning image of Paul doing the very same action to him. Harry came, still thinking of the two former lovers entangled.

John pulled away, but not before leaning forward for a last, soft kiss. “That was brilliant. Thank you.”

“Want me to untie you?”

He held up his hands, and tried to pretend he wasn’t embarrassed. “Do you want to go back to work?”

“Not particularly.” He stuck a cigarette between his lips and did the same for John without having to be asked. “Feel like going out?”

John contemplated his words on the end of his cigarette before speaking. “Paul invited me to his place. I don’t know if I should go.”

Harry’s heart did a somersault, and he immediately felt sick; he had never been much of an acrobat. “Will Linda and the girls be there?”

“I don’t know. He said something about them going to see Hollywood.”

“Well. You could always… stay with me.”

John studied his face, eyes alert behind his glasses; Harry was terrified that everything he felt, everything he knew was written on him as plainly as a ten cent novel. “I’m sorry, Harry, I can’t,” he finally said, and Harry forced himself to smile.

“Hey, no big deal, I’m just feeling kinda lonesome in that house, y’know?” His laugh matched the nearly empty room, and he took another gulp of whiskey before looking at John again.

“I could come over tomorrow or some other time,” he suggested, pulling on his tight jeans and platform shoes. His bruised wet lips shone brightly, and Harry could spot strands of cum in his hair. He fidgeted with the button of his jeans. “I really am sorry. It’s just something I have to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Harry said. “You can stay right here with me. You can go out to the clubs. You can go home. You don’t have to see Paul.”

“It doesn’t work that way with us.” John leaned forward and kissed him one last time. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As John walked out, wobbling a little in his shoes, Harry watched the door after him for several long moments. There could be a chance, he thought through the sluggish haze of alcohol, that he would come back. After sitting in the long and desperate silence, Harry turned to the console and went back to work, a proper drink in hand. His own voice filled the small room and Harry sang along with himself, the duet of loneliness. _But don’t forget who’s taking you home, and in whose arms you’re gonna be. So darlin’, save the last dance for me._


End file.
